


Visitation

by STOPiamreading



Category: A Heist With Markiplier, YouTube- Markiplier, markiplier - Fandom, youtube - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Awkward Romance, Blood mension, Breaking and Entering, Crush at First Sight, Crying, Eventual Romance, F/M, First Crush, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Found Family, Friendship/Love, Gen, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Guilt, Heapass - Freeform, Humor, I still can't write Yancy's accent, I've never written kissing before, Jail, Kissing, Loneliness, Love At First Punch, Love at First Sight, M/M, Mark Fischbach Egos, Men Crying, Mension of Murder, Mild Blood, Mild Language, Misunderstandings, Nightmares, Other, POV Alternating, POV Male Character, POV Multiple, POV Third Person, Post-"I Want to be Free" Ending, Post-AHWM, Prison, Prison Visitation, Prison found family, Reader Insert, Reader-Insert, Smoking, Solitary Confinement, Violence mension, Yancy centric, Yancy mildly-unhealthily pines over you, Yancy still doesn't get out of prison, Yancy's perspective at first and then yours, Yearning, broken glass, fight mension, gender neutral reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:20:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24045814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/STOPiamreading/pseuds/STOPiamreading
Summary: Yancy finds himself in solitary and thinks about wanting to be free. It's hard to endure, but at least he could see you once Visitation Day comes... right?Right?
Relationships: Yancy and Reader, Yancy and Viewer, Yancy and Y/N, Yancy and You, Yancy x Reader - Relationship, Yancy x Viewer, Yancy x Y/N, Yancy x You, Yancy/Reader, Yancy/Viewer, Yancy/Y/N, Yancy/You
Comments: 16
Kudos: 35





	1. Look Down

**Author's Note:**

> Does the emotional guard ("such soft hands") have a canon name? I gave him the same name as the actor that plays him.

Yancy sprinted as fast as he could from the gate as your gaze was down at the box in your hand. He was never good at saying goodbye. He knew that you had to leave as much as he had to stay, but it was goddamn hard to leave your side. Yancy resisted the quiet yet insistent voice in his head telling him to run away with you. He knew that if he stayed at the exit with you any longer, the more painful your goodbye and the stronger the pull of leaving the prison would be. So he did you both a favor and left before you could look up.

It hurt.

Yancy hid behind a building out of your eyeshot, breathing deeply as he leaned against the brick wall. He steadily counted to 10 in his head, willing himself to calm his breathing. He slowly peaked out from his hiding spot. You were already walking away from the prison, a dark shadow on the other side of the gate. You had a nice shadow, Yancy mused, watching until it blended into the darkness of the night. 

Yancy let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. His chest felt tight; he assumed it was from the running. Yancy started to make his way back into his cell, quietly sneaking around the familiar maze of the prison he called home. At one point Yancy instinctively turned around to check if you were following behind: you were not.

His cell was empty and quiet now, the way it was before you arrived. The bottom bunk would remain untouched (he _let_ you stay in his cell after all) and neat with the blankets and throw pillows tidied. Yancy wouldn’t let anyone else stay there, not even Heapass. He did have a tough-guy reputation to keep, even if the homey décor of his cell gave away his inner softness (he punched the face of anyone who insulted his sense of interior design). Yancy wasn’t planning to have anyone sleeping over in his room. That and the thought of someone else using your bed sounded disgusting, even though you were probably never coming back to use it.

Yancy paused, staring at your framed mugshot on the nightstand. He picked it up and laid it sentimentality on your pillow. Then Yancy climbed up the top bunk and went to sleep with thoughts of you still plaguing his brain.

* * *

The next morning, Yancy lifted weights in the yard while humming "The Disclaimer Song". The inmates had only about an hour of rec and Yancy planned on making full use of it. The day room was pretty busy with Yancy's ragtag gang running around. He wanted them to tone up for the next dance sequence to celebrate the Warden’s upcoming birthday, which wasn't a long ways away. Tiny was supposed to be spotting reps for him, but she was busy staring intently at the closed prison doors. 

"The Warden is mad at you," Tiny said in almost a whisper after a long moment of silence.

Yancy set the weights down. "Wha-?" He got cut off by the doors slamming open.

Mr. Murderslaughter stood in the doorway with two guards behind him. His arms were crossed and his expression was as stern and serious as usual. The prisoners have long since learned to read his microexpressions with impeccable accuracy to gauge exactly when he was on the brink of exploding. It was the only way they were able to survive this long. And Tiny was right. 

"Yancy, c'mere, I need to speak with you. Privately."

All the inmates were dead silent, not-subtly watching the plot unfold. Yancy stood up with his head held high and confidently strode to meet the Warden. He was a good actor; he couldn't be a good leader of his prison gang if he showed he was afraid of something as mundane as this. Because he _was_ scared.

"Yessir," Yancy replied, keeping his tone level and maintaining steady but not confrontational eye contact. 

Mr. Murderslaughter glared at him suspiciously. Yancy felt his soul almost leave his body. They walked inside with the prisoner at the Warden's heels. The door closed behind them. Yancy’s walls instantly fell.

"Sir, whaddever I've done wrong, I-I swears I didn' mean it and I promise I ain't ever gonna do it again, just _please_ don' be mad at me," Yancy blubbered. The Warden held a hand up to signal Yancy to stop. He did, his bottom lip trembling as he imagined whatever punishment he was going to get. 

Yancy respected the prison overseer and was maybe slightly intimidated by him. The man was a strong disciplinarian who ran the penitentiary with an iron fist. He deeply cared for the prisoners and fostered the ideals of a dog-eat-dog world. Yancy felt that they understood each other. Not like his parents, who were too soft and forgiving. The Warden was as close to a father/mentor figure as Yancy could get, and he did not want to disappoint him.

"Yancy, are you aware that Y/N escaped last night?"

"N-no sir."

"You sure about that, boy? I _know_ you, you're practically one'a my own. And I know you're lying to me."

"I, um-"

"And not only that, but before they ran off, they stole that box from my big, strong hands. Now obviously Y/N wasn't here long enough to know where my office is, let alone be able to steal it from _me_. I doubt they'd even be smart enough to get out of this place without help."

"Y/N's smarter than youse thinks," Yancy muttered. Mr. Murderslaughter didn't acknowledge it.

"I've been lenient on ya for so long, Yance. I only left ya in solitary for one night after you started that fight—with Y/N no less—because I know how much you hate it in there. So why doncha do me a favor and tell it to me straight." The Warden firmly placed his hands on Yancy's shoulders. Yancy looked askance and winced at the tight grip. "Did you help Y/N escape?"

Yancy knew there was no escape, physically or verbally. "...Yeah, jus’ a little."

Mr. Murderslaughter sighed and unclasped Yancy's shoulders. "You're breaking my heart here, son. Well, you would be if I had a heart left to break. How am I supposed to trust ya after you went behind my back and did something as despicable as that?"

Yancy's fists were held protectively in front of his chest with his shoulders scrunched and tense. He hoped that you were happy wherever you were. He hoped this was all worth it. 

"I think what you need is some more alone time to reflect on what you've done. This is a penitentiary after all, and we strive towards repentance. I think two weeks in the box'll do ya some good".

Yancy's eyes widened. "Please sir, anythin' but dat. Don' send me down there again, not for that long. I could settle for a-a week or a week an' a half, but two weeks? I-I'd _die.”_

The Warden's lips tightened into a firm line. "Now Yancy, you wouldn’t be in this position if ya stayed in line an’ did whachu’re supposed ta do. Take ‘im away”.

Mr. Murderslaughter waved dismissively at the guards that instantly flanked Yancy, each one firmly gripping his arms. Yancy knew better than to struggle. He opted for looking at his feet dejectedly as the guards silently walked him to solitary.

* * *

Solitary was how you’d expect it to be. Four bare white walls, a sterile bed that resembled a hospital cot, a metal food slot built in the door, and a grand total of 60-80 square feet of space. The white fluorescent light burned into Yancy’s eyes like a cold sun. The room was also farther away from the main prison quarters, meaning there was barely any heat in the chilly nights or fans in the sweltering afternoons (this is Texas after all). It was a stark contrast from Yancy’s cozy cell with its plush throw pillows and the like.

Yancy stepped into the small room, remembering vividly the few times he’d been there long-term. It had never been _this_ long. He wasn’t one for being lawful good, but he was pretty sure that two weeks was legally the maximum amount of time an inmate can be put into solitary. It was in here that his nightmares were the worst: flashbacks of his parents' screams, blood-stained hands, and police sirens repeating over and over again on loop. Yancy could handle a night or two. Hell, he was sure he could even tough it out for a week. But 14 nights was going difficult.

The one guard that all of the prisoners—Yancy included—would die to protect lingered in the open doorway. There was nothing but quiet concern in Holt's eyes and Yancy felt guilty that the man was so empathetic on his behalf. He almost regretted helping you break out because of that glimmer of disappointment in the CO's face. Almost.

“It breaks my heart to see you in here, Yancy,” Holt admitted with a sigh, “I know you don’t like being alone, not really.”

“I’ll be fine,“ Yancy assured the guard and himself. He savored the conversation, knowing that it would be a long time until he’d hear a voice other than his own. 

“That’s what they all say. I’ll try to sneak in a coloring book or something so you’ll at least have something to do.”

“Thanks,” Yancy muttered. The guard was so nice it was almost painful. The prisoner awkwardly scratched the back of his neck. "Hey, uh, if youse can, there's a photograph in my cell. If it ain't too much t'ask... could youse get it for me?"

Holt smiled warmly with a knowing glint in his eyes. "Y/N right? I'll see what I can do.” He pat Yancy's shoulder supportively, opposite from the Warden's bone-crushing squeezes. "Hang in there Yancy, we're all rooting for you.”

The door closed and locked. Yancy didn't ask how the guard knew it was a picture of you. Was he that obvious? 

Yancy sighed, falling backwards onto the creaky bed. He only had to survive for two weeks. He could always sneak out in the middle of the night, but being ostracized still hurt. 

It would be a while until he could make parole.


	2. On My Own

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yancy's not having a good time in solitary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My attention span has been virtually nonexistent recently and I've been writing 5 different fics and working on a ton of mini projects outside of school without finishing any of them. I'm tempted to like, not do school. 2020 AP exams though, oof.

When the door slot opened later that day there were some papers poorly hidden by the tray of food. There was a coloring book (featuring some guy called “Markiplier”, who Yancy thought looked like a douche) with your photograph tucked inside. For some reason there was also a tastefully nude calendar with the same Markiplier guy plastered all over it. The guard didn’t seem like the type to have a nude calendar, but it wasn’t really Yancy’s place to judge. He didn’t want to think about what the implications were.

The stack of papers tucked under the food tray was obvious. The colorful pages stuck out the sides and made it a beacon for security to see. It wouldn’t be surprising if the many hallway cameras spotted the incriminating evidence while the guard delivered the meal. Yancy hoped he was okay.

He flipped the calendar to its current month and circled in red crayon when he got out of solitary. Then he went further and circled the next visitation day and wrote "Y/N??" on it. Yancy knew you were technically still on the run and probably wouldn't be able to visit next third Sunday, but he kept his hopes up. Yancy had faith in you, more faith than himself and anyone else for that matter. You could wear a clever disguise and get away with virtually anything, so he was sure that you would definitely visit if you really wanted to. Because who could say no to a handsome and/or beautiful face like yours?

The thing that Yancy hated the most about solitary was the oppressive quiet that filled the room. At least with the gang around, he was surrounded by noise and conversation and other signs of life. But now he was forced to be alone with his thoughts. To cope he made his own noise: humming ditties, singing all the showtunes he knew, and talking aloud to himself and "You" (your photo, more like) until his throat was sore. He was sure it was the only thing keeping him from going insane from loneliness and claustrophobia.

He stared at your mug shot photo before lights out, wondering what you were thinking at that moment. Where were you now, out there? How were you doing now that you were free? Did you think about him as much as he thought about you?

The picture reminded Yancy of the photo of your family that you showed him on the first day you met. He imagined how it would be like to be a familial type again, but for some reason every time he did so he immediately thought of you.

When the lights did turn off, Yancy didn't move, still staring at your image. Even in pitch black he already had your face memorized and engrained in his brain.

"'Night, Y/N," he whispered, gently placing his lips to the paper. It felt right. Yancy briefly debated on whether or not it was creepy, but hey, what you didn't know can't hurt you. He tucked the photo under his pillow and hoped that he would get a peaceful night of sleep for once.

It was the worst at night.

He tried to put off sleeping for as long as he could, sitting awake in a darkness so heavy and thick that it felt impossible to breathe. No one would hear him if he cried or screamed: a tree falling in a forest with nobody around. Nightmares plagued Yancy every night, and with them the crushing feeling of guilt. His hands would be wrapped around his parents' necks or gripping a knife above their chest or covered in their blood. But recently it was you: your neck, your chest, your blood. Yancy would see your face full of shock and horror and worse, betrayal. You'd scramble away from him but he was always able to catch up and deliver the final blow. He watched himself kill you over and over again, unable to control his movements in the dream no matter how much he yelled for him to stop.

He would wake up with your scream still ringing his ears, breathing heavily and covered in a cold sweat. Yancy never wanted to hurt you. He wondered what would have happened if he had accidentally killed you when the two of you fought. He felt scared and guilty for crimes he did and didn't commit.

* * *

For the most part, the next two weeks were surprisingly productive ones. Yancy even came up with a new song: a song about you. He didn't have all the words down yet other than the chorus and a few rhyming lyrics, but it was getting there. There wasn't enough space for him to dance out the choreography though. He made do with tapping his foot to the rhythm and humming the tune as he imagined the movements. The blank coloring book quickly became filled with scrawled handwriting and scribbles in crayon from his brainstorming. Yancy was picky about the word choice because he wanted the song to reflect you: perfect.

He hoped you'd come to Visitation Day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seem to always end chapters with a single sentence paragraph. Huh.


	3. Do You Hear the People Sing?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More details with Yancy and the prison gang! (Found Family?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it Sparkles McGee or McGhee?

Two weeks went by and Yancy found himself back in his old cell. The others knew to give him space as he slowly got reacquainted with the noise and people again. The Warden slowly warmed back up to him and the days until Visitation became fewer and fewer according to Yancy's new tasteful nude calendar.

Soon enough, Yancy was back to his usual self. Well, for the most part. The other inmates were very aware of the his sudden infatuation with the mysterious prisoner that was able to knock Yancy’s lights out. It became the gossip of the entire prison to the point that even the Warden took notice (not that Yancy was the most subtle about it).

Yancy wasn't the type to voice his internal thoughts much with his "tough guy" persona to maintain (though everyone knew he was a softie), but sometimes he'd let things slip about how "Y/N would'a liked this" and "What would Y/N think?". To all of the other prisoners, it was obvious that he was as lovestruck as a teen with their first crush. Because from what they could tell, it washis first crush. They saw how Yancy's gaze would stare faraway to the gate of the prison and how he carried your picture on his person at all times; it was pretty serious. 

"Our little baby jailbird's growing up," they'd snicker to each other behind his back.

The inmates were happy for him, but they were also wary of the new development. They loved Yancy of course, but You were an Outsider now. It would be horrible if you took their beloved leader and friend away. They talked among themselves, worried about the possible loss of Yancy and the dissolution of the happy prison family that he helped build.

* * *

Yancy was in the middle of explaining the dance routine of a new song for the Warden's upcoming birthday party.

"Any questions?" he asked the group.

The prisoners looked at each other in concern for a moment in a tense silence. Sparkles McGee took one for the team and raised his hand with a jesterly jingle.

"Are you going to leave us, Yancy?"

The rest of the inmates turned to Yancy expectingly, some of them nodding in agreement. Yancy sighed. He saw this coming. Luckily his two weeks in solitary gave him enough time to come up with an answer.

"A'course not, I ain't ever leavin' youses, we're family. But I’ve been thinkin’, what if we got outta here, together? Yanno, if everybody went on their bestest behavior for parole, we's could _all_ be free this place.”

Yancy put his hand on Bam-Bam's shoulder in friendly way, rallying the prisoners. "Don't youse wanna be free? I knows some'a youses are familial types an' got people waitin' on the other side." Sparkles McGee and some of the others nodded affirmatively.

"An' I'm sure there's plenty a' things youse miss out dere. Like I misses not havin' solitary an' not havin’ ta be all sneakylike all the time a-an’ wearin’ leather jackets! Hell, I could be on Broadway by now!" That earned a few laughs. Yancy lowered his voice, getting serious for a moment.

"It's gonna be real tough though: if one'a youses ain't on board or mess up, we're all stayin' cuz no one's leavin' unless we're all goin' together, capiche? An' once we're free, it'll be difficult to get a job an' havin' ta pay for stuff again. I was thinkin' we's could get some spaces in an apartment buildin' so we could all be closelike, but we'll iron out the details when we get there." Yancy smiled. Some of the prisoners were misty eyed, even the typically stoic Jimmy the Pickle.

"Point is, we've been 'ere and repented long enough. 'Cause right now we're jus' wastin' away an' helpin' nobody. Everybody deserves a shot at redemption- maybe it ain't too late for us. I'm sure we's could do it if we try. Who's with me?"

Everyone cheered. Bam-Bam cried, wiping his teary eyes from under his glasses. Yancy beamed, patting Bam-Bam's back supportively. "Ey, I knew I could count on youses. Now let's start from the top; this may be the last time we do one'a these here performances. Let's make it count!"

They shouted again, hugging each other and eagerly talking about what they'd do once they got out of prison, the yard filled with noise and laughter. Yancy smiled fondly at the sight.

"Haha, bros before hoes," Heapass smirked playfully.

Yancy glared at him as if he was tempted to break the inmate's other arm. Heapass broke eye contact and glanced to the side.

"Eheh, uh, nuts before sluts? Wait, that's still- um, balls before dolls? Ugh, sorry, Heapass'll stop now."

Yancy still held a death stare, his arms crossed in front of him. "Youse better."

Tiny was about to walk over there and smack Heapass upside the head but Shithole Hank, who standing next to him, beat her to it. Heapass's hat fell off his head and he rubbed the point of impact sheepishly.

"Heapass deserved that," he muttered as he picked up his hat.

Yancy knew there were no hard feelings. They were all close and they scuffled as much as siblings do. Even though he would never admit to being a familial type, if this wasn't family, he didn't know what was.

Yancy's thoughts then drifted back to You. He considered you family as much as the others: you practically fit right in. You made an impact on him the moment you stepped into the prison and punched him in the face. Yancy knew never would have done this without you. He had so many words left to say from when you broke out. Maybe if you came to Visitation he could tell you all about it.

"Youse proud a' me, Y/N?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Don't you wanna be free?"  
> . . .  
> "So I’m just saying, I might take parole  
> ‘Cause I just wanna be free!"


	4. I Dreamed a Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yancy does a lot of waiting.   
> Also, PLEASE DON'T SMOKE. Yancy smokes in this and it might seem cool and emo, but it won't be cool and emo if you get cancer. The only person I'd happily let smoke (away from me and anyone else because secondhand is even worse) and die prematurely is my bastard uncle. And You are not my bastard uncle, so DON'T. DO. IT.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most visitation art/fics you see for Yancy are face to face with a glass partition and the phones on either side. This type of visitation is in an open visitation room and allows limited physical contact between inmate and visitor. Because angst.  
> Also, I named the other guard/WKM and ADWM Chef "Rexx" because it's the actor's last name and I thought it was fitting.

It was finally Visitation Day and Yancy tried to contain his excitement. He didn’t want to bring his hopes up, but he couldn’t control the amount of euphoria and giddy smiles that came with the idea of seeing you again. It had been a long month until that third Sunday. He never really cared about Visitation, but this was the first time that there was someone out there that he cared enough to see (and hopefully cared enough to see him). The other inmates cheered him on and the guards expressed their well wishes throughout the day. Even the Warden gave him the faintest hint of a congratulatory response as Yancy made his way to the Visitation Room. Normally they would call the prisoner in once the visitor came, but considering how you didn't make an appointment, Yancy had behaved for at least a week, and he was adamant on being in the room when you got there, they let him wait for you.

Yancy knew that the chances of you coming were slim. He kept telling himself that it would be impossible for you to visit with your fugitive status and all. He reminded himself, over and over again, to be realistic. He shouldn't put so much blind trust in someone he knew for only a few hours like that anyways. He didn't want to get hurt again, especially not by you.

He sat at an empty circular faux wood table in the back of the room. There were already a few regulars sitting at different tables and talking amongst themselves. Some of them gave Yancy a reassuring thumbs up, which he returned with an awkward half-smile. He had no idea what he was doing and he was as excited as he was anxious, which was to say he was a self-conscious, high-strung bundle of energy. 

Identical tables were scattered around the space with several plastic chairs in the same soft yellow hue. The walls were a creamy off-white with a foot wide mint green stripe running across the walls, flush against the white ceiling. The fluorescent lighting made the colors look haggard and grim; it reminded Yancy of solitary and offended his sense of interior design. He drummed his fingers on the tabletop rhythmically.

Yancy watched the other tables getting filled up as loved ones came and went. The room was louder now, full of energy and life: hands touching hands, tears of joy, sounds of laughter, long-winded explanations of everything that's been going on. The guards stood by idly, observing the scene with cool detachment. From Yancy's spot in the back of the room, he was able to see all of them. He smiled, imagining how happy they would be once they all got out of prison. 

Yancy hummed your song, quiet enough that only he could hear. His table was still empty. His foot tapped to the beat as he tried to release his pent up excitement without being noticeable and bursting into song. 

He waited.

* * *

The other inmates shot him a sympathetic look and goodbye before they left. He almost felt angry at them for doubting you, but he knew they were just looking out for him. The room was empty except for Yancy and one of the guards and the now-darkened windows betrayed the passage of time. He had been sitting at that table in the back for the past few hours. Yancy already hummed through almost every song he knew at least once, which was a lot. Thankfully, the guard didn't have the heart to tell him to stop (Yancy's humming was just as melodic as his singing, after all)."I Don't Wanna Be Free" was a popular hit, as well as the new song for the Warden's birthday. He also went through your song at least a few hundred times more, perfecting the notes and lyrics every so often. He even made a parody of his top single called "I Just Wanna Be Free", complete with a solo starring Heapass. Yancy was sure that you'd find it hilarious.

The long-haired guard strolled over to Yancy's table, looking up at the clock on the wall. It was encased in metal bars and relatively high up. 

"Look man, it's time to go. Yer girlfriend or boyfriend or significant other ain't comin'. You're keeping me from eating my Hot Pocket," Rexx sighed impatiently, putting his hands on his hips.

Yancy frowned. "Jus' five more minutes. Please." The look of desperation was evident on his face. You were going to show up eventually… Right?

"Fine, five more minutes. But only because I like you," the guard relented. Rexx adjusted his hat and mourned having to wait for his Hot Pocket even longer.

"Thanks," Yancy smiled weakly. 

He waited.

* * *

"I'm sorry, man, but we've gotta go."

Yancy sighed as he stood up on stiff legs. He anticipated this. But that didn't mean it hurt any less. The guard escorted him back with a tense silence hanging in the air. Some of Yancy's crew noticed his downtrodden expression (he denied that he cared about you not being there, but his disappointment was painfully obvious), patting him sympathetically on the back and reassuring the prisoner that he didn't need you anyways. They gave him space and time to heal, offering a ton of shoulders to cry on, many listening ears, and all the hugs he could ask for. But in the end, Yancy still had to go to his cell for the night, alone. 

He crawled into the bottom bunk, sitting on the edge of the springy mattress and taking up as little space on it as possible. Sitting on what used to be your bed felt like a temple desecration, or maybe a grave. The main lights shut off with a clack, but the ambient illumination of the hallway provided enough brightness to see. It was much better than the pitch darkness that flooded solitary at least. Yancy's hands clenched in his lap, tense and coiled up. His chest felt tight and he desperately wanted to punch something. He hated how much control you had over his feelings even though you weren't there- _because_ you weren't there. Maybe you were busy or didn't want to risk visiting. Maybe you forgot about him. Or worse, maybe you didn't care. He at least wanted closure, a sign that you were still somewhere out there and that his efforts to get you out weren't for nothing. Never had he felt so alone. 

Yancy pulled out your picture, the edges already slightly frayed from being handled so much. He held the photo in his hands and wondered if he'd ever have the chance to see that face again, hear the sound of your voice, make you smile. Yancy knew that you weren't going to come, he saw it coming from the very beginning. He _knew_ , so why did it still feel worse than all the punches you gave him? Why was he so attached in the first place? I mean, as far as first impressions went, getting into a fistfight with you probably didn't paint a good picture. Yancy _hurt_ you, something that he still had nightmares about and deeply regretted. And not only that, but you only knew each other for less than a day, not nearly enough time to form a profound bond. So why did he care so much? There was that determined glint in your eyes when you said you wanted to break out. There was that inherent trust you had in him as you let Yancy blindfold you and guide you out of the prison. There was that persistent smile when you looked back at the penitentiary from the other side of the gate, one that said "I'll be back for you, just you wait". Maybe there was something wrong with him. Yancy put the photo away: it hurt too much to look at.

He needed a smoke.

Yancy knew you'd probably disapprove of him slowly killing himself if you were there, but he was confident that something was going to kill him and that it sure as hell wasn't going to be old age. He only indulged on the contraband cigarettes occasionally, just enough to get the edge off without creating too much secondhand smoke for the other inmates. It was best to make use of the time he had left, he thought, (Yancy debated on getting a "Memento Mori" tattoo for a while), so he relished in the brief moments of respite that the cancer sticks provided.

He unfurled the raggedy hard pack of Kools from the right sleeve of his T shirt. The half empty blue box (solitary confinement had not been kind to him) was gently poured out into the palm of Yancy's hand. He picked out a cigarette and a loose match from his depleted supply and wrapped the box back up. The prisoner stuck the filter between his lips, stretching behind him to strike the match against the wall. Amber light lit the immediate area around Yancy's cupped hand and he shook the match with his wrist and put it out. Yancy tucked the piece of wood into his sock, reminding himself to properly dispose of it tomorrow. 

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. 

He slowly started to feel calmer, his general feelings of abandonment slowly disappearing in a physical cloud of smoke. Yancy slouched forwards, resting his elbows at his knees with the cigarette held familiarly between his index and middle finger. You left him, he finally concluded after a while of deliberation. At least he could focus on getting his prison family out, even though he was hoping that your face would be the first one he'd see outside the penitentiary's gates. Yancy didn't hold it against you though. You were too perfect and amazing and probably busy to waste time on him. He was more mad at himself for letting you weasel into his thoughts so fast. But then again, heisting and being all sneakylike was your job, it was no wonder that you'd be good at stealing hearts too. 

Yancy realized with a start that he really, really liked you. 

He put his head in his hands and exhaled shakily, delaying sleep until he was hopefully knocked out from sheer fatigue.

He waited, and waited, and waited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Imagine if I ended it here haha.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not very familiar with how the prison/solitary/visitation system works. Or how to write Yancy's accent.


End file.
